Blanket
by Johnlock09
Summary: *Spoilers for Season 2* *slight Johnlock* John has been awfully down since Sherlock's fall, and he always has one thing to go to when he gets home. Sherlock's blanket.


**John's POV**

I still sleep on Sherlock's bed each night. Their is a connection there, I can't explain it, but it makes me feel more at home. As if a weight is lifted off of my shoulders, and I imagine him laying next to me, talking about some absurd cases. When I come home, I always drag myself into Sherlock's room, and go to the one thing that drains all of my pain away. It's still there, I can feel it multiplying in my veins, but it's not as strong. It's not as vivid.

There is a blanket. One special one. When I would force him to go to bed, (which I doubt he actually slept) he would lay on top of it, (probably pretending) close his eyes, and tell me, "Yes, John, I'll go to sleep. Enough with your nagging, it's giving me a headache." When he..you know, left, I had this empty ache in my heart. It drowned over my body, and I felt as if nothing could ever take this feeling away. The first night I went into Sherlock's room, I sat at the edge of his bed and cried for who knows how long. My body shook, and I put a fist in my mouth to try and stifle the sounds. When I finally laid back onto his mattress, the blanket, his blanket, still had his familiar scent on it. The scent would run up my nose, and leave me to peacefully fall asleep. Their were some nights when I would have nightmares that seems so _real, and vibrant. _The nightmares would always be the same. Sherlock would be leaving me his "note" and jump off the hospital top, leaving me to fix up my broken pieces. I would wake up, drenched in cold sweat, and I would hold onto his blanket and cry.

It's times like this when I miss him the most.

Sherlock Holmes was a man, a very different man, but I adored him in every way. Sure, he annoyed the hell out of me, and was a bloody git half the time, but he was so _him, _that I wouldn't want him any other way. He was a human being. Even though he didn't "consider himself one," he was the most human being I have ever met. I don't think Sherlock knows the major impact he left in my life, and I don't know if he ever will. It's been three years, _three fucking years, _and yet here I am, laying on his bed, still praying for a miracle. Jesus, I still hope he's alive. A stupid thought, isn't it? Wishing for something you know is impossible. But, I'm stuck in the same place, stuck with my emotions. I feel anger, and sadness. The anger boils in my blood, but the sadness washes itself over my pupils. Is it alright, hating yourself for something like this? Because, bloody hell, I would have jumped off with him. I would die for that man, and I don't think Sherlock bloody Holmes fully processed that. He could have called me, told me what he wanted to do, and I would be with him step by fucking step. God, I would have rather jumped with him, than to live with this guilt. It's eating me alive. I feel it rotting in my bones, chomping on my heart; I feel myself dying away.

I may still be breathing, but who I was has died long ago.

Greg takes me out sometimes, we get a pint, and talk about our "feelings." I could see he misses Sherlock a lot as well, but he doesn't want to fully admit it. He contacts me sometimes, asking if I feel like having a pint with him. Most of the time I want to say no, but I can't burden myself from everyone. Plus, Greg was a nice man. A very nice one at that. We would always go to the same pub, sit in the same spot, and have ourselves a splendid conversation.

"_The bloody man would make my job a lot easier if he was still here!" Greg yelled, putting his face in his hands. _

_"If it helps at all," I sigh, patting his back, "I could try and help out. I'm not as smart as Sher- him, but I could sure as hell try. With me being surrounded by that git most of the time, maybe some of his deduction has rubbed off on me." _

_"John," Greg smiled, "You certainly know how to make a man happy." _

_"Oh, well, uh, Greg-"_

_"NO, not like THAT, you bloody wanker! I meant, you know how to make people happy. I guess I should have made that a bit clearer, huh?" _

_"Everyone at work getting along well?" I ask, moving the conversation along._

_"Yeah, I guess. Anderson still-"_

_"Being his ignorrant self?"_

_"No, well, actually...yes." _

_We both laugh at our absurd confessions, and for a moment, I felt a little as ease. Though, knowing me, my depression clings back onto my back again. _

_"It was nice talking to you, John, but my job is calling for me again. We need to do this again, huh?"_

_"Yes, yes we should." I add, "Today was nice. Thank you, Greg." _

_"No, thank you, John. Call me whenever you want to go back for a pint. I'll make time." _

_We both stand up, and give each other a handshake. He pats me on the back, and heads towards the exit door._

_"Oh, and Greg?" _

_He turns around, and peers straight at me. "Yes?" _

_"Next time, you need to tell me how you're dating life is doing, huh? Surely you've been meeting up with other woman now?" _

_"Not my division!" he chuckles as he walks out the door. _

Then I would come back home, sulk into my depression once more, and lay in bed. A lot of the time I would make tea, sit across from Sherlock's chair, and be lost in thought. There were so many things I wanted to tell him, and now they would be left unsaid. Those specific words clawing at the tip of my skull, and leaves me a dull headache to deal with.

But right now, right now, I'm laying in his bed, wrapping myself around his blanket. Soft tears trickle down my neck, and leaves me cold shivers.

"Dammit, Sherlock," I whisper, as if I'm scared anyone else will hear, "_I need you to come home._"

Memories flicker in my head as a response. Memories, some still feeling raw, and recent, rapidly blink before my eyelids.

_The first time we met, seeing him deduct for the first time, (God, it still puts me in awe) our first argument, me shooting the cabbie to save his life, the H.O.U.N.D, Moriarty, (the name still brings bile to my tongue) my words, "YOU MACHINE," (I wish I could take that back, it still haunts me) our last conversation, and his jump._

I squeeze the blanket tighter, his scent falling away, but still faintly there.

"I _need_ you, Sherlock." I start to shake a bit, and I shut my eyes, tighter, as if I thought it would make this feeling go away.

"I need you to come home. Please, _for me._"

**Okay, well, I don't know where I got the idea for this, but it just popped into my head. I may do another chapter, though it depends on you guys. R&R? Thanks.(: **


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